Everything is but a dream.

Wind rolls up my hairs, swirls through my ears, making my eyes tickle. But that is fine. Everything will be fine. Farewell, my good, old friend, I have to say farewell for a night. And I am on my way. My specific, wonderful way. It is a mild night, and I am chilling a little with the blow. That is just my thrilled beat, thrusting me to go on. I have to breathe deeply each time as if grasping the cold air and fill my lungs with the night in order to stand there stilly and hold in my hands the nerve of the trail I am stepping on. My heart seems to beat out of my chest, and my fingers are grabbing my palm. The coldness of the dark punctures through my internal every second, but everything will be fine.

This is no warm inside, but you are meant for this trail. Wait no more.

I stared into the complete darkness that the concrete road stretches into, and I’ve made my mind.

With that I am on my trail. I make myself focus on the concrete only. The concrete just lies there bare, against the rushes of tires and decades of boredom. The night is completely silent. Cars’ roaming seems incidents taking place a hundred miles away. I look around, every light other than those necessary to show me the way out is shut into sleeping. This night shall be mine.

Let’s keep our head low. And now, let’s roll our arms and shoulders a little. Forget about the dummy. Awkward, that is, walking without a soul. Now, start walking, medium but fast.

And I walk into the darkness. I find myself dwelling into the silence, with only my beat audible. My rhythm smoothly blends into the blackness.

Under the dim but clear lights, I see the green, new grasses growing in the cracks of the concrete. Periodically, darkness sends a blow through my ears, and the grasses start dancing with the wind. I walk.

I walk for ten steps, and turn right. Another hundred steps, and turn left. Another thousand steps forward, and I am outside.

There is no roaming of engines flowing by on the road. The road is covered in a mere curtain of shallow-yellow, with the bushes by the road waiting in silence for another new dawn. All the stores on the other side have closed their eyes. I go through their names, one by one, trying to remember scent of this picture faded in yellow. Once again, I allow the special scent of the night of freedom to fill my lungs, and I move on.

I step on the tiles with mosses refreshing themselves into magical fingers that tip me forward onto the trail. I dwell in the illuminous yellow lights of the lamps. The illumination breeds to a trail straight ahead. I have to get on my trail.

What was it this time? Man you fight with your old man so many times. But, at least something new this time.

Don’t tell me that I need to love him, right? I am cherishing the time with him, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up my stand for that, yeah? If he’s not being reasonable with me, how am I supposed to listen to him?

Come on guys, stop the quarry. We are on the way, and let’s make it meaningful, right?

The hell I tried pulling logic into his mind, not his so-called “old-man’s advice”. What are they, for real?

Shut it, get on the way.

So I walk. I walk until the road disappears. The tiles are no more. There is simply the light that points forward on the concrete surface and the farmlands in darkness on two sides. The greenness seems to be holding its beauty for next dawn and remains silent.

What do you want? Afraid to be caught? Come on, you guys had a fight, a fight, right? So why are you doing something wrong? Shut it, no further discussion needed, understood? Screw you if you are just comfortable with staying in your nest forever. It is good of us to not to throw the door when we left!

So I walk. I walk past the long trail. Mansions on two sides still keep the scent of late evening, the oily scent that smells exactly like the 3 o’clocks when I used to come back home from primary school, when my grandfather would take me out. And I would ride my bike, swiftly thrusting through the fake mountains, biking onto the hills, and accelerating down again. I’ve learnt well about not using any brakes when turning. And my grandfather would sit there watching me going for a cycle, another cycle, another, another cycle… the tiles were white and black, and were slippery. Or sometimes, we would sit beside the pond, seeing the red, while, and colorful fish roaming inside. If it is a lucky day, he would bring some bread so that we could tear it up and tost them into the surface to see how those colors bind into clusters, as ripples break up the silence.

But now, all of them are gone. Gone with the blow.

At the end of the trail, there is a river. Beyond the river, there is the grassland. Endless, it seems. But I will never be walking onto the grassland, the same way I’ve passed the tiles. It seems concrete that there is a river. And though I sometimes still see my and an elder’s reflections in that river, the sky is dark now.